Mass Effect Minifics
by servantofclio
Summary: Short bits of fic in the Mass Effect universe. Various characters and situations; where Shepard appears, it's usually Val Shepard from my story "Life, Letter by Letter."
1. Candle

Two characters by candlelight. Set late in ME3.

* * *

There was a thump and a whir, and the whole apartment went dark. In the office, Shepard stared helplessly at her terminal. "What the hell just happened?"

"Power's out," Garrus called from the other room, his voice echoing strangely now that all the background hum of appliances was silent.

"The power just goes out? On the Citadel?"

"Sometimes." It sounded like he was moving around. She caught a glow out of the corner of her eye, probably the light on his omni-tool. "Keepers re-route something, grid gets overloaded somewhere, you know. Check your omni-tool."

She lit it up, the usual orange glow seeming too bright in the darkness. A new message from Citadel Utilities popped up. "Hey, Garrus?"

"Yeah?"

"The good news is, they know about the outage. The bad news is, it could be hours before they fix it."

"Hm. Do you have flares or anything? I don't know how long the battery in the omni-tool is going to last."

Shepard made a face, not that he could see it. "I don't think so—oh, wait!" She got out of her chair and tripped over something before she remembered to light up her own omni-tool. She managed to get to the kitchen without further incident and found what she was looking for in a drawer. "I've got candles," she announced, pulling tapers out of the drawer.

"Candles," said Garrus from the doorway, sounding skeptical. "Why do you have candles?"

"I don't know. I think maybe Kahlee left them." She managed to get her omni-tool's mini-fabricator to spit out some makeshift candle holders, and enough of a spark to light the first candle. She used that one to light another half-dozen or so.

"That still doesn't explain why she and Anderson had them."

Shepard shrugged. "They're supposed to be romantic."

"Why?"

"Oh, come on." She picked up a pair of candles and approached him. "Dim light... flickering flames... it all encourages a certain... intimate... mood, doesn't it?" She leaned in close, pressing the candle holders into his hands, looking up at him through her lashes. "Plus, I thought you were the one who did all that research?"

He flicked a mandible as he accepted the candles. "The research was good at indicating _what_ humans do, Shepard. It wasn't very good at indicating _why_."

She turned back to pick up another pair of candles, and ushered him with her into the living room, depositing all of the candles on the table and herself on the couch. "Are you trying to tell me humans are that mysterious?"

"No." He sat down next to her, though not close enough. "You're a little confusing, though. Collectively."

The dim light of the candles cast his eyes into shadow, and the light flickering along his scars made them look rougher and more ominous. He looked older, darker, mysterious himself as he tilted his head toward her. Shepard slid closer, pressing her thigh against his, her shoulder against his side, and wrapping her arm around his back, low, where it began to narrow. "You're telling me you don't find this at all appealing?"

He breathed out a short laugh, ruffling her hair, and his arm slid around her shoulders, pulling her more firmly into him. "I always find you appealing. Doesn't have much to do with the candles."

She'd take it, she decided, even if he was being contrary, and turned her face up for a kiss.


	2. Stars

Shepard and Garrus go stargazing.

* * *

"Joker says he doesn't have a good approach vector here," said Shepard, glancing at their surroundings: in a narrow cleft with steep hills on one side and some kind of forest on the other. "What's the verdict?"

"Fuel cell's damaged," Garrus reported, pulling himself out of the guts of the Hammerhead. "It can recharge, but it's going to take a few hours. What the hell did you do to it, Shepard?"

"It wasn't me, it was that damned icy planet Cerberus wanted me to check out," she said. "How was I supposed to know that would have long-term consequences? You should be grateful I respected your delicate turian sensibilities and didn't ask you to go along that time."

"Believe me, I am." Garrus found a rag from the vehicle's tool kit and wiped off his hands. "So I guess we're stranded until we've got enough fuel to get to somewhere more open?"

"That's about the size of it," she agreed. "At least it's warm here?"

He hummed in assent.

It was a balmy night, reminding her of the summers of her childhood. The sun had set about half an hour earlier, and the faintest hint of a breeze cooled her face. Looking around, Shepard spotted a rock with a broad, flattish surface, marched over and settled down on it. She might as well rest somewhere semi-comfortable. After a few minutes, Garrus followed. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all. Have a seat." She tipped her head back. "Wow."

The star field that hung above them was immense and dazzling. Here, far from any settlement, no light interfered with the glow of the stars, like a field of diamonds, large and small, layers of them, seeming to go on forever.

"Impressive," Garrus said, softly, with what sounded like genuine awe.

Shepard cleared her throat, keenly conscious of how near he was, their hips almost touching. "Anything look familiar?"

"That way" –he extended an arm—"is Palaven's sun. Trebia."

Shepard tilted her head to follow the line of his arm and finger toward a cluster of stars. "You knew that right off?"

"No," he said, tapping his visor.

"Cheater," she told him with a grin, and leaned against his shoulder.

He went very still. It wasn't that long since she'd taken her courage in both hands and made her approach. It had been one of the more awkward conversations of her life, and she still couldn't believe some of the things that had come out of her mouth. They were both feeling their way into... whatever it was that they were doing, exactly. But surely here, away from any chance of observation, they could relax a little.

"Shepard..." he said, before breaking off abruptly. "Look!"

She almost missed it: a brilliant streak tearing across the sky. She would have thought it was the _Normandy_, but it was followed by another, and then another.

"A meteor shower," she breathed, watching as the sky seemed to light up with falling stars. She couldn't have stopped smiling if she tried. When she turned to Garrus, she saw a matching smile on his face, and they settled back to watch the show.


	3. Protect

After all the battles they've fought together, the three of them know the drill. Shepard takes point, pushes ahead, draws attention; Tali backs her up, uses her drone as distraction, hacks the enemy tech; and Garrus brings up the rear, surveys the scene, picks off the opposition.

Shepard clears out her end of the battlefield and turns around to scan the area, breathing hard. Tali is fine, hunkered down under cover; there are a few marauders in her area, but she's safe enough for the moment. Garrus found himself a sniper's perch among some abandoned equipment... but there's a brute bearing down on his position and he doesn't have a lot of room to run. He doesn't seem to have noticed it yet. She'll give him shit about that later. For now, it's faster to act than to speak.

Biotic charge used to be more of an effort, something she geared up for, something that left her slightly dizzy. Now it's like flexing a muscle. A moment of concentration, she clenches her fist... and she's there, slamming into the brute's shoulder, catching it off guard. Shepard steps back and fires round after round at it, until her thermal clip pops out, spent. She slams a new one in and shoots again. She's seen enough brutes by now that she knows where to find the weak points in their strange hybrid bodies. The brute roars and rears above her, its attention now totally fixed on her. Shepard braces for its charge.

A sniper rifle cracks at close range, and the brute's misshapen head comes right off. The body collapses more slowly, almost comically.

"Nice shot," she calls.

"Thanks," Garrus calls back.

"Just watch it, Garrus, he almost had you."

"Noted."

Later he'll claim that he knew the brute was there all along, or that he could handle one at close quarters. Later she'll mock his observational skills mercilessly. On the field, it's back to work; Garrus hits the marauder closest to Tali with an overload, and Shepard charges again.


	4. Manuel

When I started a new game of Mass Effect, I found myself wondering what became of the scientist's assistant on Eden Prime.

* * *

When the Reapers attacked Earth, there were a handful of Alliance officers who were expecting it. Not at that precise moment, perhaps, but the signs were there to see, for those who had paid attention to Shepard's warnings.

The rest of the population was caught completely unawares. In spite of all the rumors and scuttlebutt that had circulated since the Geth War of three years earlier, the idea of actually being attacked by giant killing machines was the province of extranet conspiracy theories, not real life.

Only one person on the planet was not surprised.

"Manuel," said the nurse kindly, "it's time for your medication."

The patient looked up from the puzzle he was putting together. "They're coming," he told her solemnly.

She blinked. She hadn't been working on the psychiatric ward long, and she wasn't used to all the patients yet. "Who's coming?"

"The machines," he told her. "They'll be here today."

She had other patients to see to, and not a lot of time. "Well, that's nice," she said.

He shook his head, but took the pills and water she gave him compliantly. As she walked away, she thought she heard him say, "No. It won't be."

It had been a long time since Eden Prime, and the various drugs he'd been put on over the years meant that he didn't always have the dreams any more. But Manuel still remembered.

Humans' time was over. The hour of destruction was at hand.

Two hours later, the comm buoys at the Charon relay went silent, cutting Earth off from the rest of the galaxy.

Soon after that, the Reapers descended on Earth's cities. They came to the hospitals for the harvest. Earth's sick and dying would become their shock troops. The hospital's security guards were no match for the hordes that the Reapers had brought to Earth.

As they put Manuel on the spike, as the cybernetics wormed their way through his flesh, his last thought was relief, that they day he had so long known was coming had finally arrived.


	5. Elegy for the Mako

A tribute to my favorite ground assault vehicle.

* * *

The cold freezes its gears and drains its fuel cells. Ice seeps in through the cracked hatch, coats the interior, the seats, the guns, the casing of the eezo core.

It has been other places. Sulfur and lava have licked at it, rain and hail have battered it, deadly spores have covered it in layers. Acid has eaten away at its tough shell, boulders have torn its undercarriage, plasma and rifle fire have scored it. Once a krogan kicked it. It has been more pleasant places, too. It has driven along the shallows of a glimmering beach, the water rushing around its tires. It has sat in the sunshine, waiting for its crew to return. Deft hands have repaired it, removed grime and debris, lubricated and polished and adjusted.

It has traversed stars, unlike others of its kind, a bouncing race, top speed all the way, caught in air and light before crashing down across the galaxy, gravity suddenly out of tune.

It has played its part, and as it sits in the cold, perhaps it dreams of its moment of glory.


	6. Rain

For a request for kissing in the rain.

* * *

The sky is gray and heavy-looking, and sure enough, it starts raining not long after they've gone out. Shepard flings her arms wide and turns her face up into the rain, letting the chilly drops run across her face, down her neck, into her collar. She can feel water soaking into her hair. She's going to be cold eventually, but for now, it feels pleasantly cool on her skin. She twirls in a circle, letting the rain wash over her, sticking out her tongue to catch a few cold drops.

Beside her, Garrus grumbles, ducks his head, and hunches his shoulders against the chill. Water slides right off his plates, leaving a shine, but soaks into the crevices between. He actually squirms as water gets under his collar, but he doesn't turn back or complain, and he's wearing a fond expression while he watches her act like a fool in the rain.

Her breath catches. Two steps put her into his space. He looks surprised as she reaches up, framing his face in her hands. His mandibles, slick with rain, flex slightly against her palms as she draws his head down and kisses him.

His mouth feels like suede against her lips, both of them damp. He tastes like himself, metal and leather and dusty Palaven spices she doesn't have a name for, but also like rain, cool and fresh and sharp. He gathers her in, arms around her, heedless of wet clothes. She rises onto her toes, trusting his strength to support her as the rain comes down harder, soaking them both to the skin. By the time she's done, she's cold everywhere but her lips, warm and tingling. She grins at his expression, affectionate and bemused, and thinks she might just have to kiss him again, rain or no.


	7. Krogan Hugs

"Shepaaarrd!" Grunt slurred, and attacked.

When Shepard went to the medbay to check on the krogan after they departed from Utukku, she had not expected to be enveloped by a krogan bear hug. She staggered under Grunt's considerable weight and awkwardly patted at the leathery hide of his massive arms. She could barely see over Grunt's shoulder, but she thought Eve looked amused behind her elaborate veil.

"I mish- mith- missed you," Grunt informed her, his head bumping heavily against her own.

"I, uh, missed you, too, Grunt," she said, bracing herself against the weight of true krogan. "What brought this on?"

He drew back, blinking great blue eyes that were a little glazed. "I jusht wanted you to know."

"That's nice." Shepard tried to figure out how to extract herself. Fortunately, the door whisked open behind her.

"Hey, Shepard—"

"Turian!" Grunt cried, and left Shepard, lunging the few steps to embrace Garrus, who made an undignified yelping noise that Shepard's translator didn't render into words. "Garrush. Ma- My _favorite_ turian!"

"How many turians do you know?" Garrus demanded, mostly obscured behind Grunt.

"One," Grunt said. "No, two... three..." He backed up so he could count off on his thick fingers, allowing Garrus to stagger free.

Shepard said, "Mordin, what the hell did you give him?"

"Analgesic. Something to counter effects of rachni acid," the salarian said, watching the krogan sway in place as he counted and mumbled. "Should note effects of combination."

"Good point," Shepard observed. "If we ever need him really mellow again. But maybe ease off on the dosage next time."

Grunt abruptly sat down on the floor, chuckling softly. Mordin sniffed. "Agreed."


	8. Worries

Set after the Leviathan mission; in my game, this took place right before Thessia.

* * *

When the door to her quarters slid open, she said, "I'm really fine," without looking up from the terminal. She did feel fine, the headache completely gone, although Chakwas had given her every neural scan they could manage and instructed her to rest. As usual, she was defying medical orders by answering her mail.

There was a pause, the doors sliding shut, and she heard the faint scrape of footsteps. "Uh huh," said Garrus. "Seems like I've heard that before."

She swiveled her chair around, to see him regarding her recent acquisition warily. "I can't believe you actually brought that thing on board," he said.

She smiled and shrugged. "Consider it a souvenir."

"Hope it doesn't bite too hard."

She thought of Leviathan, and her smile fell away. "Yeah," she muttered. "Me too."

Garrus did not comment on her changed mood, but simply came close and put his hand on her shoulder. She was grateful; it was hard enough for her to stop second-guessing her own decisions without listening to someone else's doubts. She owed him for more than that, too. "Thank you," she said, looking up.

His face shifted into an expression of honest puzzlement. "What for?"

"You pulled me out of fire when I was in no condition to fight?" Truth was, she'd barely been able to walk. Her memory of everything after the Leviathan was a little hazy, actually. Afterward, she'd watched the action from the camera feeds that everyone, plus the Kodiak, carried.

"Oh." Garrus stepped back and rubbed the side of his neck. "I... always, Shepard. You don't need to thank me for that."

She tried to decide whether she was seeing a turian-duty thing or a protective-boyfriend thing, and gave up. She stood and closed the distance between them, looping her arms around him. "Are _you_ all right?" They'd held out for hours, she knew, and she hadn't missed how shaky his cam was as he rushed to her prone form.

"Yeah, I'm..." He averted his eyes, looking somewhere over her shoulder, and the scarred mandible twitched. "All right, I was worried about you."

She nodded, remembering the look on his face as she'd climbed into the diving mech. "I have to admit I was a little worried myself. I didn't like leaving you and James and Steve behind. But if I didn't, we might have been stuck there forever."

"I know that. It was... all that _water_, Shepard." He fidgeted, tensing in her hold. "I can't..." His eyes finally returned to hers, and there was something stark there. "I hate not being able to follow you."

She hugged him tighter and he returned the embrace, a little harder than usual. She said, "I'm sorry. I know you told me never to do that again, but..."

His laugh was a little weak, but it ruffled her hair. "I know I can't really ask you to... well. You wouldn't be you if you didn't take impossible risks."

"I'll try to space them out. Wouldn't want to worry you too much."

Her reward was a more genuine laugh. She leaned into him, letting her fingers play along his neck. Part of her wanted to make promises, that she'd always come back, that she'd never go solo again. She stopped herself. They both knew what risks they lives held. She wasn't about to start lying to him now.


	9. Nostalgia

Inspired by some suggestions from the lovely w0rdinista / Niamh St George

* * *

The Silversun Strip was so full of sound and light and motion that it always made Garrus just a little edgy. The potential for an unseen threat was high. He tended to keep half an eye on the crowd, watching for any suspicious movement.

Shepard was relaxed, though and seemed so content that it was hard to look away from her. She'd let her hair down, for a change; it cascaded over her shoulders, falling halfway down her back and into her eyes. Between that, an unaccustomed red dress, and more face paint than she usually wore, she was making a fair attempt at avoiding recognition by the casual observer.

"Oh, Garrus! Look at that!" She headed off to a kiosk with an assortment of oddly-shaped and colored gear. By the time he caught up with her, she was brandishing some sort of long stick that glowed light blue.

"Is that some sort of... weapon?" he asked, dubious. It looked more like a toy than anything else.

"Yes! Well, no. I mean, it's not the real thing. It's just a replica." She swung the thing in a small arc. It made an odd humming sound.

"A replica of what?"

"It's a lightsaber," she said, as if this were self-evident.

"And... this is some sort of historic Earth weapon?"

Her jaw dropped for a moment and her eyes widened. "Oh, wait... you mean you haven't seen Star Wars?"

"Does 'every time I leave the _Normandy_' count?"

"No. No no no. Oh no," Shepard said, looking serious. "We're going to have to fix this, Garrus."

"Fix... what exactly?"

"It's a vid series. A historic and important vid series. And I'm going to need you to see it."

He folded his arms. "Really. What's so important about this vid series, exactly?"

"It's only one of the most commercially successful human vids of all time. It has spaceships. And lightsabers." She brandished hers. "It was one of my favorites when I was little. Well, what I saw then was the version they made right before the First Contact War. The twentieth-century originals were really good, too, though." She fished for a credit chit and turned to the kiosk's proprietor.

"You're actually buying that?"

"Damn straight. I always wanted to be a Jedi."

"You're a biotic," he pointed out. "I don't know what a Jedi is, but..."

She shook her head. "Not at all the same thing. Although..." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "Nah. Not the same thing. Come on, let's get back to the apartment. We can watch on that big screen."

She was wearing her determined face now. Garrus smiled at her and brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes. "Does this mean I get to force you to watch the vids I liked as a kid, too?"

She smiled back, her eyes softening. "Yeah. Absolutely."


	10. Night Terrors

In which Garrus learns that sharing a bed with a biotic can be dangerous. Set post-Suicide Mission, pre-Arrival.

* * *

Garrus snapped awake when the woman next to him thrashed. It took him only a second to recognize his surroundings, though he hadn't spent the night in Shepard's quarters more than a few times. The sight and sound of that ridiculous fish tank was unmistakable.

"Shepard?" He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her in the dim light. She looked tense, her arms tangled in the sheets, but her eyes were closed. She must still be asleep. Her brow furrowed even in sleep, her mouth turning down into a frown.

He tried again, a little louder. "Shepard? You all right?"

She muttered something unintelligible, her face twisting into something like a scowl. A ripple of blue passed over her skin. Concerned, he reached for her shoulder, intending to wake her.

A mild electric shock tingled through his fingers, and there was a sudden, solid impact that caught him off-balance and blew him right off the edge of the bed. Garrus hit the floor with a startled shout and lay there for a moment, assessing the damage. His right shoulder, which had taken the brunt of the impact, twinged.

"Shit." Shepard's voice sounded strained. He heard rustling from the bed above him, and then her face appeared leaning over the side of the bed, peering down at him. "Fucking hell. Are you all right?"

"I think I'll live." He sat up, rolling the shoulder carefully.

Shepard's teeth pressed into her lower lip. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. "Dammit," she said in a small voice. "I am so sorry."

"So," he asked, still working out the kinks but fairly sure no real harm had been done, "does this happen often?"

She closed her eyes. "No. Well. I flare sometimes. In my sleep, I mean. When I have bad dreams, usually. But, um. Usually there's no one else here. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have asked you to stay."

"Hey." Garrus pushed himself up from the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached for her hands, still knotted in her hair, drawing them gently down and away from her head. "It's fine. I'm fine."

Shepard shook her head. "It's not fine. I could have hurt you. I _did_ hurt you."

"I got worse than that sparring with Thane a couple of days ago."

Her lips compressed. "Not the same thing. At all. Maybe... this was a bad idea."

Garrus took a deep breath, to keep himself from asking what she meant by _this_. The part where he slept in her bed? Or the part where they were together at all? But she looked so miserable, tense, eyes downcast, that he pushed down the impulse to ask her a sharp question. Instead, he leaned toward her until his forehead met hers. "Not fragile, Shepard. I can take it."

This close, he could feel the little breath that she blew out. "I'm not going to risk hurting you because I got self-indulgent and lost control."

He thought for a moment. "Listen," he said cautiously. "If you really want me to go, I'll go. But I'd rather work it out so that you don't have to worry. I mean, I saw the flare."

She looked up and met his gaze. "You did?"

"Yeah." He laughed a little. "And I reached for you, which obviously was the wrong move."

She smiled for the first time, and a little of the tension seemed to ease out of her frame. "Yeah, probably."

"So now I know not to do that again."

She flinched, and he stroked his thumbs along her palms, hoping the gesture was soothing. "I think we can figure this out, Shepard."

She took one slow breath, and another, deliberately relaxing herself. "I'm still sorry."

Garrus shrugged and grinned at her. "I'm sure I can think of some ways for you to make it up to me."

She laughed, and he counted it a victory.


	11. Rhythm

Garrus must have been really immersed in what he was doing, because he doesn't seem to hear Shepard coming up to the door. She starts to call out to him, pausing in the doorway, but then she stops herself and just watches.

He's humming under his breath, head tipped down, focused on the guns and tools and mods he has spread out on the workbench in front of him. And he's _dancing_.

In a manner of speaking, at least. It's not a tango or anything that belongs in a club. But he's definitely moving to a rhythm she can't hear, slow and easy. Hips shifting, shoulders flexing, head tilting, and it doesn't seem to interfere with whatever he's working on, his hands sure and deft at their task.

Shepard watches for a little while. She can't quite make out the tune, but she can't remember the last time she saw him this relaxed.

Eventually it's too irresistible. She steps forward, quietly, and comes right up behind him so she can trail the fingers of one hand down his spine. "Hey."

This close, she can just hear the music that his visor is piping into his ear. He stills for a moment, but doesn't quite lose the rhythm; she can still feel the muscles shifting under her hand. "Hey, yourself."

She leans her cheek against his shoulder. "Mind if I join you?"

Garrus chuckles. "I think I can maintain my own guns."

"Not what I meant." She leans into him slightly, matching the beat he's moving to.

"Why, Shepard, I can't imagine what you do mean."

"That's a shame." She turns her head so her breath is puffing directly against his neck. "I thought you had more imagination than that."

"Oh?" He frees himself enough to turn around so he's facing her, his hands coming to rest on her hips. She slides her arms around him in turn.

"That's more what I had in mind," she murmurs while they sway together.

"I'm not getting the work done, though," he points out.

She lets her hands wander to his waist and grins when he inhales sharply. She takes care to lean in close to his neck before she whispers, "I bet I can make it worth your while."

He pretends to think about it, even as his fingers do some wandering of their own. "Interesting proposition. What brought this on?"

"Do I need a reason?" She's forgotten why she came in here in the first place. She doesn't know if she can explain it, the appeal of that quiet moment, catching him unguarded and at ease for once. "Maybe I just wanted to test that rhythm you keep bragging about."

"Mm." He pulls her closer, still moving gently to the beat. "And what do you think?"

"I might need a more _extensive_ test." She presses her lips to his neck, just over his pulse.

His voice goes gravelly. "You're not so bad yourself."

"I'm going to remind you of that the next time you mock my dancing in public."

He laughs until she kisses him again. By then he's found his way under her shirt and is tracing circles on her skin.

In the end, they both lose track of the music, but neither of them cares.


	12. Reassurance

I started writing short-ish pieces focused on different characters for ME character appreciation weeks over on tumblr (masseffectlove dot tumblr dot com). This one is for Mordin.

* * *

The damned Cerberus logo was everywhere, winking at her from all the humans' uniforms, splashed large upon the walls. Everywhere. Tali glared at it, every time, as she explored every nook and cranny of the vessel. There were surveillance devices everywhere, too. She'd disabled the first few she found, the ones in engineering, and then she'd simply started documenting the rest. It might be best to consult with Shepard before unilaterally removing the lot of them, as much as knowing they were there made her itch. She _would_ have to show Garrus the ones he'd missed in the main battery. Insufferable turian could still stand to learn a few tricks. She smiled to herself.

It was the middle of the ship's night cycle. It had seemed the best time for her explorations, with most of the crew in their quarters. The night crew cast her curious glances as she went by, but she ignored them. She had started in engineering, of course, and as the shift changed over, she'd worked her way up, mostly using the service conduits buried between the ship's decks.

Tali opened a door and blinked as light spilled into the corridor. Light, and the sound of someone humming, and... oh. It must be the salarian scientist Shepard had mentioned. She stepped in, her eyes and suit adjusting to the new environment. "Dr. Solus? or... Professor Solus?"

"Yes? Either correct. Or Mordin. Formality unnecessary."

Tali blinked. "Okay. Mordin. I thought I should introduce myself. I'm-"

He finally looked up from his experiment. "Ah! Quarian. Tali'Zorah. Latest recruit. Chief engineer. Pleased to meet you."

"You too." Tali looked around. The lab was a jumble of different lights, instruments, something bubbling in a beaker suspended over a burner. "What are you working on?"

"Improving seeker swarm countermeasures. Analyzing samples from Horizon. Various personal—don't touch!—projects."

Tali jerked her hand back. "Sorry." She hadn't meant to touch anything, really. As she looked around again, the apparent chaos reminded her of her own usual work space, arranged in a way that made sense to her, if no one else. She was willing to wager that Mordin was the same way. Only with so much _more_ space. She sighed, her guilt mingled with envy. "I'm very sorry. I hope I didn't interfere with anything."

He sniffed. "No harm done."

She asked hesitantly, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Certainly. Answer not guaranteed." He was busy tapping away at his console still. Tali smiled to herself, admiring his commitment to multitasking.

"Does it bother you, being on a Cerberus ship?"

"No. Shepard's ship. Shepard's crew. Good cause."

Tali nodded slowly. "So you're not worried... that Shepard might... not be herself, or Cerberus might be controlling her somehow?" This was a fear she couldn't quite shake, even after talking to Shepard. It seemed to good to be true, and no matter how reassured she had been in Shepard's presence, her worry returned whenever Shepard was absent. Especially with the Cerberus logo looming everywhere.

"No. Have examined records, conducted medical scans. Results consistent. Confident of Shepard's identity."

"Oh. Good, then."

"Regarding Cerberus—" Mordin inhaled sharply. "Caution advisable. On alert, certainly. Not defenseless. But Shepard's word good." To her surprise, he smiled at her. "Fear unnecessary. Prepare for worst. No time wasted worrying."

"I... thank you." The advice was unexpectedly heartening. Tali felt her shoulders relaxing. "Well, then. Is everything working properly in here? No problems with the equipment?"

"No malfunction at present."

"I'll let you work, then."

Tali left feeling more confident than she had since boarding the vessel. It was good to have friends aboard, but it was also a relief to have her desire to take precautions affirmed. She got into the habit of stopping by the lab every day or two, after that. Sometimes she did some minor repairs, or improved the efficiency of one of Mordin's machines; once or twice she asked him for a bit of medical advice. They seldom talked long, since Mordin was usually focused on his work, but one evening they ended up in a lengthy discussion of the best works of quarian music in the last century.

When the crew broke up, before she returned to the Flotilla, Tali made the rounds of the ship to say goodbye. On impulse, she gave Mordin a hug. "What will you do now?" she asked.

He blinked several times, startled. "Talk to STG contacts. Data to analyze. Much to do."

"Oh, of course, the data from the Collector Base," Tali said.

Mordin blinked again. "Yes."

"Well, I hope we'll meet again someday."

"Perhaps." He smiled. "Farewell, Tali'Zorah."

"Farewell, Mordin. Keelah se'lai."

#

Months later, Shepard told her what happened on Tuchanka.

"Oh," Tali gasped, her eyes filling with tears so suddenly she could hardly see for a moment. "Oh. I never—"

"I know." Shepard rubbed her eyes, looking tired. "I miss him, too."

It was silly, really. Of course there would be losses, even of people she knew. This one hit her hard, though. She sniffled behind her mask. Shepard put an arm around her shoulders, but she made a funny hiccuping sound herself, so Tali hugged her back.

Garrus found them in the lounge trading Mordin stories a while later. If he noticed that Shepard's eyes were red or that Tali's voice was raspy, he didn't say anything about it, only poured them another round of drinks and took a seat.


	13. Inscrutable Depths

Once he realizes that Shepard has been away for a full day cycle, that she left without informing the team, that they have been running in stealth mode long enough for the heat to make everyone short-tempered, Thane seeks answers. Miranda Lawson's door is locked, though he can hear her voice rise and fall within, sounding sharp. After a moment's thought, he finds his way to the main battery.

"The commander has been away for some time," Thane notes.

Vakarian's hands stop moving over his console. His head bows. "I'm well aware."

"Do you know why Operative Lawson has not yet briefed the team?"

"I think she's arguing with Alliance brass. I don't know why she's bothering."

Thane blinks, startled. "Alliance? I thought Shepard was no longer under Alliance orders."

"She's not." Garrus turns around, arms crossed, leaning heavily back against the workstation. "Until she chooses to be."

He radiates weariness and worry, and something more. Thane has worked with the turian long enough to know that this mood is unlike him. The whole situation, to be sure, is awry. "And the mission?"

"She's breaking into a batarian prison to liberate a human prisoner. It shouldn't have taken this long."

Once again, Thane is taken aback. An infiltration mission of that sort demands stealth, patience, finesse. Shepard is many things, but those are not her most prominent qualities. She is a force to be reckoned with in battle, raw biotic power and muscle and skill combining into potent disruption of her enemies, but... he cannot imagine her in the situation Garrus describes. He is surprised not to have been involved, or at least consulted. "That is not a mission best suited to her strengths."

Garrus exhales. "That's what I told her before she left."

Shepard typically listens to her squadmates' advice, and Garrus has more latitude than most. Yet—"And her response?"

"She pulled rank and told me off." Garrus settles heavily on one of the crates in the battery, his elbows on his knees. "She's missing in batarian space, and the last words we exchanged..."

_Irikah's eyes blaze. Her tone snaps with anger. "You promised Kolyat you would be home for the festival."_

_"I must go now, or the opportunity will be lost," he argues, but it is not really an argument. He is already prepared to go; his body is prepared for work. He opens the door._

_"Don't think you're getting out of discussing this when you come back," Irikah warns._

"... if she's injured or—" Garrus stops himself as Thane brings himself back to the present. The turian shakes his head as he exhales, a harsh sound. "It'll be her own damned fault for going without backup."

That time, Thane had returned to find Irikah well, if angry. They had smoothed things over. He had not been entirely easy during that trip, however. He had returned to the argument several times in his memory, regretting that they had parted with acrimony. "You are angry with her," he observes.

Garrus looks up, seeming startled. "I..." He shakes his head again. "She doesn't usually ignore good tactical sense. She should have had _someone_ to watch her back."

By preference, of course, himself.

_"Krios. Up for a workout?" Vakarian waits, politely, in the doorway to Life Support. _

_Thane rises. "If you wish."_

_It is an invigorating session. Vakarian is skilled, primarily in the standard turian military techniques, though with a few tactics that can best be described as street fighting as well. Thane knows much that he does not, however. He is demonstrating a maneuver when the AI's voice interrupts._

_"Garrus, you wished me to inform you when Commander Shepard had returned."_

_He straightens, his demeanor relaxes, tension flows out of his muscles. Thane suddenly realizes why he had suggested sparring at this moment. "She's back?"_

_"She has just boarded and is seeking medical attention."_

_"She's what?" The tone is harsh, his eyes widen; he bolts toward the elevator with jagged strides. Thane follows. _

_They find Shepard maneuvering through the CIC, leaning on Samara for support. Her expression is pinched, her eyes shadowed; a cut on her cheek bleeds sluggishly. Vakarian goes to her other side at once._

_"Shepard, what happened? You said—"_

_"Garrus, it's just my head, I'll be fine—"_

_He snaps a curse, maneuvering to take more of her weight. Samara silently releases her hold._

_"You don't need to carry me!"_

_"Like hell I don't. You can barely stand."_

_As they step into the elevator, they continue arguing, though Shepard does so half-heartedly, squinting against the lights. This time Thane does not follow. Nor does Samara. As they wait for the lift to return, Thane smiles to himself. The attachment of the two is plain to see. He wonders how far they are aware of it. _

_He glances at Samara; surely she sees it, too. Her gaze is distant, her expression less serene than usual. "Samara?" he inquires. "Is all well?"_

_She shakes herself, a slight, almost minute motion. "What had to be done is done."_

_Their ethics are different, but Thane understands necessity. "I see."_

_The look she casts him might be grateful, but she says nothing more as they return to the crew deck._

"The anger is understandable," Thane says, mildly.

"What I think doesn't matter." Garrus stands. "We need to find her."

"I will assist in any way that I can."

Miranda calls a team briefing even as they are leaving the battery. The team listens with grim faces as she tells them what is known, which is little. There is reason to believe that Shepard may no longer be on the planet. EDI, Tali, and Legion begin a project to map out where else in the system she might be. They also intend to investigate the prison, to make sure she has not fallen into batarian hands there. Thane volunteers for the drop onto Aratoht. His health may be deteriorating, but he is still fit for combat.

Here, too, they find little. The prison is in disarray, many of the guards dead, their prisoner fled, a shuttle missing. Thane's disquiet grows. It is precisely the kind of chaos Shepard is best at causing to her enemies. In his mind, it is exactly what the mission did not call for. In addition, it is wet. Rain sweeps down from the skies; even inside the prison, every surface feels damp. By the time he returns to the _Normandy_, he can feel it, heavy in his lungs, constricting his breath. He reports to the medbay for treatment.

He is still resting there when he becomes aware of the odd, momentary dislocation caused by use of a mass relay. A few minutes later, Shepard staggers into the room, Dr. Chakwas rising immediately to meet her. As usual, the doctor deploys screens so that the examination may occur privately.

When they are done, Dr. Chakwas leaves the room, patting Shepard on the shoulder. She has changed into the standard black and white fatigues, and sits on a bed with her head bowed. She looks up when Thane moves into a sitting position. "Thane. You all right?"

She looks worn, the skin around her eyes dark. He will not add to her burdens now. "It seems I should be asking you that."

She bites her lip, dropping her head. Her hair is coming loose, falling over her cheek. A soft puff of breath escapes her. "I... I'll be fine."

"If you say so."

She shakes her head. The loose hair obscures her face. "I screwed up." Her voice comes out hard.

"We all make mistakes."

Her shoulders shake. It takes him a moment to realize that she is laughing, almost silently. "Yeah. We don't all blow up entire systems when we make mistakes, though."

Thane takes in the enormity of what she has said. He knows a great deal about killing, but this is a different scale altogether. "What happened?"

She lifts her head, and seems about to speak, then shakes her head. "I'd rather brief everyone at once, if you don't mind. Sorry."

"Of course." He can see the moisture glimmering around her eyes. Quite uncharacteristic, so he does not remark on it. "It is a relief to see you back. We were concerned."

"We?"

"I believe the whole crew was concerned, though I spoke mostly to Garrus."

She drops her head again, so he cannot see her expression. "Screwed that up, too," she murmurs, almost too quietly to hear.

That remark, he feels no need to let pass. "If I may—there is no reason you could not make amends."

Her shoulders stiffen. "We'll see. Mass murder may be a step too far." She looks up and meets his eyes squarely. "How do you get past a thing like that? My beliefs aren't like yours. I wasn't just acting as a weapon. I was the one who decided to push that button."

He returns her gaze, unblinking. "Was it necessary?"

"I thought so." She exhales. "It's harder to be sure, out of the moment."

He ponders for a moment. "I would pray for guidance. And for forgiveness."

Her lips tighten. "Maybe you're right. Maybe that's all I can do." She pushes herself off the table. "General briefing in twenty minutes."

"I will be there."

Thane watches Shepard leave the room, her shoulders tight. She is one who believes in people and collaboration and guns. It is not her way to turn to any form of god or goddess, even for comfort. That does not mean he cannot pray on her behalf. Twenty minutes is more than enough time to begin. He bows his head.

_Kalahira, mistress of inscrutable depths..._


	14. Both Ways

Summary: Shepard isn't the only one dealing with the stresses of the war.

* * *

Garrus had thought about just catching a few hours of sleep in the battery, but once he's done talking to Victus, he can't face being in the same room with the diagrams and schematics and casualty reports that blink across his screen. He leaves everything as it is and retreats. Not very turian of him, but he does it anyway. The ship is quiet as he passes through the mess; there might be a soft murmur of sound coming from Liara's office, but Garrus isn't in the mood to stop for conversation. He hits the button for deck 1 and slumps against the elevator wall, a concession to fatigue that he'd never allow himself with any of the crew around.

Shepard is already in bed, breathing deeply and quietly. She's left a dim light by the entrance. It's enough; he doesn't really need to see in order to take his armor off anyay, since all the movements are drilled and rote. Garrus strips down, half stumbles down the steps, and slides beneath the covers as carefully as he can.

He should sleep. He needs sleep. He keeps telling Shepard to sleep, and he means it. But his head is full of numbers, and the numbers are bad, so he stares into the darkness over the bed.

He'd thought Shepard was asleep, but in a moment she's pressed against his side, soft and warm. She flings one leg over his and an arm over his chest and says drowsily, "You're up late."

"Yeah. Victus called for a consult, and he's on Cipritine time."

"Mm." For a moment he thinks she's drifted off again, until she says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

He closes his eyes. "No. Not really." They've talked about these things before, but it's late and he's tired and he doesn't want to talk about the clawing dread, the prickling sensation that says that it shouldn't be up to him, of all turians, to be making these calls. What's essential, what can be sacrificed; another way of saying who lives and who dies. Four or five years ago he knew all the answers and criticized the decisions of his superiors; now he's come up so far, so fast, that he's the one giving orders, and he feels out of balance.

As if she hears all the things he's thinking, Shepard presses herself closer, her body molding against his. Her breath is warm on his neck and her hand slides against his chest, soothing. He half turns to return the embrace, folding her in his arms, and then he's shaking, silent, trembling from the tension, the exhaustion, the fury and terror, the knowledge that the fate of his species, even of all species, rides on his advice. His. Considering how much he's fucked up in his life, that's a terrifying thought.

Shepard holds on and murmurs something he can't quite make out, but the tone is comforting. He holds on, too, not ashamed to do so here and now, the only place either of them can let the cracks show.

Eventually he settles, or simply runs out of energy, too worn out to continue. Shepard kisses his cheek and mouth. "You going to be able to sleep?"

"Yeah," he says. "Sorry to wake you."

"Don't be. This goes both ways, remember?"

They settle into more comfortable positions, looser, but still touching, and sink into sleep.


	15. Homecoming

Wrex goes home. (Post ME1)

* * *

Shepard was dead, or so they said.

Deep down in his primary heart, Wrex didn't believe it. Not her. It was a rare sentient who had the quad of steel to face him down, much less a flimsy human. Hah. No. Should have been, but Shepard was anything but flimsy. No, it should take more than some pitiful attack at the ass-end of the galaxy to take her down.

They said it anyway. Dead and gone, lost to the void, following the orders of fools unworthy of her. Pah. The Council. The new ones, weak and scrabbling for influence, fighting for a share of the feast they denied to the rest of the galaxy. Wrex had laughed when the old Council died. Shepard knew what was right: keep the focus on the enemy, not saving those damned politicans. But the thing about politicians was, you could never eliminate their kind entirely. There were always more under some rock, waiting for their chance to slink out. The old Council was dead, but new ones took their places, just as soft and sly and shortsighted as the last.

Wrex spat to the side, and the other occupants of the battered freighter he'd taken passage on eyed him warily.

They were saying Shepard was crazy, too, obsessed with the Reapers, gullible enough to suck down Saren's lies. Wrong again; they were the fools. It figured, they never could see what was right under their sniffers, rained down in pieces all over their precious Citadel.

They didn't get that Shepard was the right kind of crazy: the kind of crazy it took to see through all their smooth talk and centuries of deception, to see right to the rotten core of the galaxy, the secret that no one in the Citadel's pristine towers wanted to believe. Maybe Saren had been that kind of crazy, too, once, before it hollowed him out and ate him alive.

No. Wrex didn't feel like granting the turian that much.

He hadn't been sure about Shepard at first. Good in a fight, sure, but then she was always coming by asking her questions. Poking around like a pyjak scavenging a meal: "tell me some war stories, Wrex" and "why not fix the genophage, Wrex" and "what about your family, Wrex."

Damned if she didn't listen, though. Most people liked to hear themselves talk a lot more than they liked listening. Humans might be mostly fools, eager as varren whelps to stick their noses in everything they didn't understand, but Shepard listened and learned and remembered what you said, later. Like with the best of battlemasters, the others followed her lead, and learned. He knew she sent them his way, she'd been clear about that. Wrex never thought of himself as much of a teacher, but it turned out it was easy when your students were willing. Not much more than a pack of children, all of them, even the asari, but sharp enough. Williams would question him about tactics with a little scowl on her face, and he showed the quarian a few tricks for handling her shotgun, and then Alenko and Liara came around asking about biotics. Even the turian shut his pointy trap and listened, eventually. Took longer to get through his thick skull, of course, but that was turians for you.

But no, now they said Shepard was dead, had a fancy ceremony for her and everything. He'd downed a glass of ryncol in her honor, but he'd had his fill of getting drunk earlier, when he first heard the news. Instead, he'd stayed mostly sober while the others drank themselves stupid. Liara cried so much she couldn't even see what was in the glass they kept refilling for her, and he hadn't seen either Vakarian or Alenko put that much away before. Even Tali had been sucking something harder than her usual into that helmet, _specially filtered_, she said.

He'd made sure they got home to sleep it off. Damned shame if some Citadel lowlife jumped one of them on their way. Shepard wouldn't like that.

Bah. Getting soft, in his old age. Wouldn't be much use for soft, where he was going.

The freighter had already been logged at the orbital stations enforcing the Council's DMZ. Damned turians had deigned not to board and search the vessel, this time. Getting lazy, maybe. Or maybe they just didn't care about a few old krogan going home. When it finally landed, Wrex took his time, let the others rush off in search of hirelings or females or whatever they came to Tuchanka for. Last one out, he gave a nod to the pilot as he passed, a female krogan with a sour expression. One of the sterile ones, most like.

He stepped out of the hatch and the heat hit him like a hammer, the sun hazy in the sky. He breathed in deep. Smoke and grit, ash and decay; engine fumes, gun oil, and krogan sweat. Smells of death, smells of life.

He'd had his reasons for staying away, but there was nothing like coming back home.


	16. Frames of Reference

Ashley adapts.

* * *

The _Normandy_ was a weird boat. Ashley didn't have much frame of reference for it.

There was the cutting-edge tech part, which Ashley only barely began to understand, but Alenko and Moreau between them had gushed on at length about. There was the layout part: the CIC in particular looked ass-backwards to her, no matter if it was what the turians did.

Then there was the mission, which they had to be super hush-hush about the details of, even if everyone knew about the Eden Prime attack. She had to be really careful about what she wrote home, though. Sure, someone would review and redact her messages if necessary, but she'd rather they didn't have to.

Then there were the aliens. The asari, okay, that was one thing, she was just up on crew deck analyzing data, or something. But the quarian was right down there working with the drive core and chattering with the engineers. Like, all the time. It was hard not to like her personally, but it was the principle of the thing.

The other two aliens bothered her more, though. Ash was trying to focus on her duties—straightforward work, work she knew well, maintaining the array of guns—but she felt like she was on a hair trigger, constantly aware of the half ton of krogan lurking over to her left, or the fact that there was a turian somewhere behind her. It wasn't that they were _doing_ anything—she fully admitted that—working on the Mako was about as innocuous a job as Vakarian could be doing—but they were still _there_.

And to top it all off, there was the fact that the CO kept coming around to chat. Ash wasn't entirely sure whether to take Shepard's apparent friendliness at face value, or whether there was something else going on. She'd thought at first it might be some kind of examination, Shepard looking for ways she'd trip up, but more and more she didn't think so. Shepard spent just as much time talking to everyone else, and while she'd told her to lay off when she shared her concerns about the aliens, she hadn't posted a formal reprimand or made a move to have her reassigned.

It was still weird, all of it. Best posting she'd ever had, but also definitely the weirdest.

* * *

By the time they finished the mission on Feros and turned back toward the Citadel, Ash was feeling restless. She was used to shit postings and guard duty, sure, but she wasn't used to cooling her heels while others made up the ground team. The _Normandy_ was a good ship, but it was still a ship: confined and stuffed with people.

She had to admit Shepard did rotate her ground team, but lately it seemed like it was always someone else who got called up for the most interesting missions. Ash frowned into her locker before slamming it shut with a sigh.

"What's wrong?" Tali asked, closing her own locker.

Ash shrugged, shifting her weight from side to side. "Just… haven't seen a lot of action lately, you know?" She forced a laugh. "I'm going to get rusty."

"Oh." Tali twined her fingers together. "I'm sorry."

Ashley smoothed her hair back from her face. "Don't worry about it." Much as she might like to, she couldn't really blame Tali. She'd been groundside with her once or twice, and Tali could do things with tech that Ash hadn't even known you _could_ do. It made sense for Shepard to want her around, especially when they were up against geth.

Plus, Tali was a sweetheart, and still shy and nervous around most of the crew. Ash couldn't help thinking of her as like another little sister, almost.

Tali said, now, "Garrus said something about a shooting range, if you… if you'd like to come with us. Garrus?"

"What?" Vakarian was still over at his workstation next to the Mako, but lifted his head at Tali's call.

"Didn't you say you still had access to the C-Sec shooting range?"

"Yeah. Why, Tali? You need to work on your aim?"

"You wish. Could Ashley come with us?" Tali asked, while Ash was still taking a breath to object.

She and Vakarian looked at each other. Even the civvies he was wearing looked kind of like a uniform, mostly C-Sec blue and black. His mandible-things twitched. He probably didn't like her any more than she liked him. Working together was one thing, he was perfectly civil and did his job, and… that was fine, really. They didn't need to hang out off-duty. "I don't want to butt in," Ash said. Firmly.

"You're not," Tali said. "Garrus needs more of a challenge, right, Garrus?"

His eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms. "I'm not going to turn one down. Are you offering, Chief?"

Well, if that was the way it was going to be... "You're on, Vakarian."

"Great!" Tali said. "We just need to look at some omni-tool upgrades first."

It was weirdly normal, Ash thought, trailing behind the two techies as they bickered over the tech on display at the market. The two of them needled each other constantly. Funny that Tali was still shy and stammering with most of the human crew, but obviously had no fear about standing up to the turian.

Then they got to the C-Sec facility, and Ash was filled with jealousy. The gear was _nice_. Nicer than the standard-issue Alliance weapons, though some of the scavenged stuff Shepard had been handing them lately was even better. It was nice to try things out in a neat, orderly range, too, although they quickly moved to more elaborate simulation scenarios. Maybe there was something wrong with her, that she'd rather spend her off-ship hours fighting through imaginary enemies than having a drink or seeing the sights, but it turned out the same thing was wrong with Garrus. Somewhere along the way they got to be a first-name basis. And there were drinks, later, and she had to remind herself not to try whatever Garrus and Tali were having. They got back to the _Normandy_ late, after a couple rounds of drinks and a lot of stories, and she had a headache the next day, but it was worth it to grin across the cargo bay for a change and get the turian version of a grin back.

* * *

The new _Normandy_ was weird, too. It looked enough like the old one to throw Ash off when she found something she didn't expect, like running into Liara when she thought she was knocking at Shepard's quarters. Or wandering down to the lower deck and finding a very polite lieutenant working on the shuttle instead of Garrus.

Instead, she nearly walked into him when the elevators opened on the crew deck. "Uh. Hey, sorry," she said.

"No problem," he replied, looking stiff, and for a moment they just stood there.

Awkward. The last time she'd laid eyes on the turian, he'd been pointing a gun at her. The time before that had been on Horizon. She'd been giving Shepard a piece of her mind, and Garrus had been the one who snapped back at her. She'd stormed her way off the planet before it had fully sunk in that her old teammate was standing there next to Shepard, in spite of Cerberus.

With that in mind, she took a breath and squared her shoulders. "Hey, Garrus. I, uh, I owe you an apology."

He cocked his head. "You didn't actually run into me. It's fine."

"Not for that. For the Horizon thing."

His mandibles pulled in. "Oh. That."

"I still think I was right about Cerberus," she said in a rush, "but I should have heard you both out and not gone off half-cocked. So. I'm sorry."

He looked at her steadily for a moment, and then his expression relaxed. "Well, you _were_ right about Cerberus, but. Thanks."

"Half wished I'd joined up with you anyway," she added. "You wouldn't believe the crap they've had me doing for the last few months."

"Oh?" Garrus turned away from the elevator. "You know, there's a bar on the portside observation deck, if you want to tell me."

"Really? That's not regulation." She started that direction anyway, Garrus falling into step beside her.

"I guess the retrofit team decided they didn't need to deal with it right away. Non-essential, you know."

"Riiiight. Well, let's see what they've got, if you're free."

"Sure thing."

"And you can tell me what the hell happened to your face, while you're at it."

He laughed as they entered the deck. "Well, that's a long story…"

The _Normandy_ was still a weird boat, she thought, but it was good to be back.


	17. Novelties

Summary: Samara adjusts to the crew. Written for Samara appreciation week.

* * *

It has been many years since Samara left asari space. Centuries, generations for other species, and even for asari. She did not hesitate to leave, however. Where her quarry goes, she must follow. Her quarry (better not to think of her by name—neither the one she received at birth, nor the one she now uses) ventured to Illium, from there to Omega; so Samara will pursue.

For a moment, she remembers her bondmate's face. They had wept together, when they heard the news, the other's soft cheek pressed against her own; later, they had argued; later still, they had parted, in acrimony and regret. Her lover could not truly understand what Samara felt. These were the children of Samara's body, a twist of her own genes that made them what they were. Her responsibility, then, to rectify. She concentrates on her duty, on her meditation, on breath and the coil of dark energy between her hands, and the image in her mind fades away.

The galaxy outside the the Republics both has and has not changed. The same old struggles for money, for influence, for pleasure. Yet the humans are newcomers to that world, and she observes them with interest. When she performs the outer meditation, turning her concentration to her environment, she is aware of their energies as they flow through the ship. The ship is orderly, well-run; for the most part, there is tranquility, as most of the crew focuses on their mundane duties. There is, though, a current of anxiety, fears for families and friends, hopes and worries for the mission ahead.

At times the energies run darker. The krogan registers in her perception as a bright, fuzzy knot of undirected force; the human belowdecks pulses with rage and dark energy, equally lost. Others carry their burdens quietly: the salarian, old for his kind, hums as he masks regrets with activity; the assassin and the thief shroud their grief in silence and shadow. After they escape the trap at the Collector Ship, the entire crew jangles with anger and discord.

Samara observes, over time, that under Shepard's influence, divisions erode; raw fury becomes directed purpose. The waves of energy generated by all the _Normandy_'s people, human and alien alike, coalesce and cohere.

It has been a long time, too, since Samara worked as part of a team. She is used to traveling and fighting alone. Now she sees the others at meals and in the corridors. Some are more talkative than others; Samara herself listens more than she speaks, and learns much. She hears whispered anxieties and the joking banter of friends, bold challenges and long discussions of the merits of different makes of rifle. She becomes accustomed to teamwork in combat; there is an unexpected comfort in having another to guard her flank. She comes to know what tactics the others prefer, which weapons they favor; where Tali likes to place her combat drone, how to track Shepard's rapid movement across the field.

At Shepard's request, she trains Shepard and the other biotics in asari techniques. Shepard is more diffident than usual when she asks, and Samara assures her that it was not forbidden for others to learn... though most of the skills she had learned as a justicar required years to master. Thus she finds herself with pupils, for the first time in a century. Shepard is too restless to take easily to the still concentration at the heart of Samara's methods, but she works at it nonetheless, with implacable determination, until her skin is beaded with sweat and she manages to channel a ball of energy, tiny and sputtering. Jack is even less patient, snarling and cursing at Samara, returning later to watch the others train with wary dark eyes. Thane is highly disciplined, though his practice and techniques differ from her own; they both find the comparison fruitful. Jacob is a well-rounded generalist; he will never commit the effort necessary to take his biotic skills to the highest levels. Of all of them, it is perhaps Miranda who has most the temperament of a justicar: controlled, committed, capable of ruthlessness. What Samara teaches comes to her most easily.

Of course, Samara did not have the appropriate temper herself when she began her journey. She had been full of passion and despair, her family already broken apart and scattered. She had waited outside the justicars' gates for days. Every morning at dawn, a window opened in the gate, and a solemn justicar asked her her purpose. Every day, her answer had been the same. Every day, the window closed, and she had waited, shivering in the early-morning chill, fidgeting throughout the day. A hundred days she had waited, as was the custom, until finally the gates opened to her, and she was permitted to enter.

She had felt victorious then, but the flush of triumph did not last long. The training of a justicar took decades, by turns grueling and tedious, exhausting her body, mind, and spirit. Step by step, oath by oath, the trappings and traits of her former life falling away. She was tempered and honed like the finest steel, stripped down to her essence: an instrument of the Code. Only then did she take her final oaths as a justicar.

Even that had been long before any of her current comrades had been born, centuries before humans had done more than dream of leaving their planet's surface.

Samara had told Shepard that pursuing her fugitive would not interfere with Shepard's mission. She had had every intention of delaying her pursuit until afterward. But the thought of her errant daughter on Omega preys on her, gradually. The station will be a rich hunting ground for an ardat-yakshi, and from Omega she might go anywhere, leaving the trial again cold. Samara sees, too, how Shepard patiently assists one companion after another. Wisely, she takes the opportunity for the team to practice working together, but it is more than that. A conundrum, Shepard: both ruthless and kind-hearted; committed to her mission, yet willing to assist her comrades. It is long indeed since Samara asked another's aid on her mission. She turns the thought over in her mind during her meditations, considers it while Shepard practices under her direction, brow furrowed in concentration. It shakes her more than she would have supposed, this desire for Shepard's aid, and more than that, for her to witness and understand what Samara must do. Yet, in due course, she comes to a resolution, regains her calm, and waits for Shepard's next visit.


	18. Abuela

Everyone gets their start somewhere. Here's James Vega's.

* * *

She looked damned small in that casket.

James could remember when he'd first come to live with his abuela. She'd seemed huge, filling up her kitchen, carrying the smell of frying onions or cinnamon or bread around with her everywhere she went. Really, though, she was a little bit of a thing. He'd been as tall as her by the time he was twelve, and now he was sixteen he towered over her. But he forgot, unless she was giving him a hug, that she only came up to his shoulder. She had a big presence for a little person. Every inch of her house was all her, bright colors and furniture worn thin with polishing, full of kitchen aromas. In the casket, she didn't look like herself, all dolled up in her Sunday best. Too still, too made-up, smelling like powder and something cloying instead of real, good food.

"Jimmy!" A shout from outside the screen door shook him up. "Open up, we got our hands full."

He shook himself from where he'd been staring at the star-shaped crack in the kitchen tile. She'd dropped her cast-iron pan when she had the stroke and fell. Last time she'd ever be in the kitchen that had been her domain.

He went out through the little front room. There was Lola on his front step, Jose right behind her, both of them laden with trays and bags and he didn't even know what all.

"What are you doin' in there?" Lola demanded when he unlatched the door. "I could see you from here, just standing there staring."

"Just thinking," he said, letting her brush past on her way to the kitchen. He took a moment to admire the way her dyed-red hair caught the light and the swing of her hips. Jose jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow as he followed.

"That's my sister, man," he muttered.

"Don't I know it," James whispered back. He knew the score, all right. Lola was twenty-one and way out of his league. That girl was smart. Going places.

Hot as blazes, too, and he could appreciate that, couldn't he, even if his abuela's funeral was tomorrow? Yeah, he could. Wasn't gonna do nothing about it. Jose knew that, too.

Uncle Emilio came out of the back bedroom, freshly changed into a black shirt and jeans. He'd only gotten into town the night before. "Lola, Jose, nice to see you." He summoned up a weary smile. "Those from your mama?"

"Yes, sir. Maybe not the best on the block, but... uh..." Lola froze for a moment as she deposited the trays she carried on the counter. Abuela's cooking had always been known as the best in the neighborhood. Lola shook her head and turned around, hands clasped in front of her as prim as you please. "She sent us to say we're very sorry for your loss, and we'd be happy to do anything we can to help."

"Looks like you're already helping." Emilio eyed the mountains of food Jose was unloading. "Tell your mama gracias from me. You'll be at the funeral tomorrow? Ten o'clock."

"Claro que si, wouldn't miss it." She started to open the fridge to put the food away, and hesitated. "Seems strange not to have her here."

"Yeah," James said, and they all stood stiffly for a minute. The kitchen was tiny enough that with four of them there they couldn't hardly move around, but even so there was a big hole where its proper mistress was supposed to be.

Lola and Jose put the food away in silence. Wasn't much more to say, was there? Couldn't really say it was too soon, maybe, she'd been an old lady, but it was still too sudden, and people got a lot older than that these days.

"Mind if we borrow Jimmy here for a few hours?" Lola asked when she was done.

"I can stay," James protested. He knew there was more to do. Maybe he couldn't help Emilio much with the bills and papers, but there were other things he could do. Things to clean up and sort through.

"No, go on out with your friends. I can handle things here."

James frowned, but Lola and Jose swept him up in their wake—okay, mostly Lola—and steered him out the door, down the block, around the corner, and out to their little patio, where Lola handed him a beer from the ice chest. "Lola," he said in mock surprise. "Corrupting the youth?"

"Special occasion," she said, opening one for herself.

For a while they just talked about nothing. Normal stuff. New vids, and who was dating who, and why Jose's boss was loco, and Lola ribbed James a little about needing to put some meat on his bones. He had to admit it was nice to do something normal after the last few grim days.

It was still hot, but the shadows were getting long. Evening coming on. "Your cousin still do tattoos?" he asked, watching for the first couple of stars.

"Yeah," said Jose. "He does good work."

"You thinking of getting some ink, Jimmy?" Lola asked, dangling one brown leg over the arm of her chair.

James shrugged. "Thought I might. Something to remember her by."

"Whatcha gonna get?"

"Don't know. It'll come to me."

Later on, it would be one of the smaller and simpler ones, hardly noticeable compared to the ones on his arms and shoulders, or the big N7 on his back. But it had been the first, and he knew what it was for. Some things you didn't have to show off.


	19. Reunion

Joker's a little nervous.

* * *

Cerberus had promised a ship. New assignment, they'd said, details later. They'd dropped enough hints that he'd suspected this was _it_, the prospect they'd dangled out in front of him months ago. He'd only half believed the crazier parts of their promise, but they'd definitely promised a ship.

Joker hadn't realized it would be _this_ ship.

She rested in the cavernous dark void of the dock, white and black and gleaming, a sleek curved shape that he knew as well as his own name. She was nameless, a big open space on her flank, but beautiful. Pristine. Bigger than the lost _Normandy_.

He was used to showing the Cerberus operatives who worked with him his game face. Look sharp, don't smile, toss out some sarcasm to throw them off the scent. Now, though, he couldn't help it: he sucked in a breath and his eyes widened. He quickly schooled his face back to stoicism when Lawson glanced at him.

"Not bad," he said, crossing his arms. "Sure you don't have any rachni hidden in the vents, or something?"

Lawson's smile grew strained. That happened every time he reminded her about Cerberus experiments gone wrong. "We've made some improvements. I think you'll be pleased with them."

Joker made a noncommittal noise.

He had to admit, though, that he was grudingly impressed when he went over the schematics. More space, improved drive core, on and on, a lot of little tweaks. Course, the proof was in the performance, and she hadn't even had her shakedown run yet. He walked up to the bridge with his fingers practically itching to feel the controls for themselves.

A blue orb popped up on his left. A cool feminine voice said: "Helmsman. Jeff Moreau. You should find the controls streamlined from their configuration on the _Normandy_."

Joker stopped. "What the hell is that?"

The tech squiring him around the ship—Hadley, he thought—cleared his throat. "Ship's AI."

"You put an _AI_ on this ship? Are you people crazy? Oh, wait, I already knew the answer to that one."

"I assure you that I do not take on the functions of the helmsman," the feminine voice said. Joker's eyes were drawn to the blue orb, which blinked in rhythm with the words. Was that supposed to be reassuring, or creepy? "I assist in data gathering and handle the cyberwarfare suite during combat. I am designated EDI, the Enhanced Defense Intelligence."

He turned back to Hadley. "An AI," he repeated.

The man shrugged, stiffly, and offered a nervous smile. "Cerberus spared no expense?"

Joker sighed and made his way forward. The seat was leather. Nice, but overkill. He settled into it without comment. Comfortable.

Damned comfortable, he admitted to himself a few hours later. It hadn't taken him long to familiarize himself with the haptic interface; Cerberus hadn't changed anything fundamental there. It had taken longer to dig into the systems and make some adjustments, set things up the way he liked them, especially when the damned AI kept piping up with her two cents. No, _its_ two cents. It wasn't a person. The voice was realistic enough to throw him off.

She was a good ship, though. AI or not. He could hardly wait to take her out and put her through her paces.

It was late by the time he was done. Still, Joker lay awake for a long time, turning over one problem after another. How would the extra mass handle in combat? How should he alter his approach to compensate for the buffed-up drive core?

He tried not to think of the ship's commander, or fire shearing through the hull, or a weird dark bulk looming on the ship's sensors. He wasn't entirely successful. He didn't sleep well, but he was used to that.

He was on his third cup of black coffee in the morning when Taylor came to fetch him. "It's time," Taylor announced. "You'll meet the CO when she's done with her call."

Joker fell into step beside him, pretending not to notice that Taylor slowed his stride deliberately to let him keep up. "How's she, ah—doing?"

Taylor shrugged his broad shoulders. "Everything seems to check out, you know, mentally. Far as we can tell, anyway. Physically—I'll tell you what, it's impressive what she's done, considering she only woke up a few days ago."

"Guess you don't know her very well. She's always impressive."

Taylor looked at him sidelong. Joker returned a thin smile, saying, "I suppose your little science experiment worked out, then."

"Not my science experiment, Miranda's," said Taylor. "Looks to be a damned good thing it worked, too."

"Yeah," Joker said under his breath. "Can't argue with that."

Taylor left him to wait outside a closed door. The voices inside were too muffled to make out. Joker tried to find a comfortable way to stand, heart pounding. Could be she'd punch him in the face as soon as she saw him. Couldn't say he didn't deserve it. She probably wouldn't do anything fatal, considering the effort she'd gone to to keep him alive in the first place. Still. More than likely she wouldn't be thrilled to see him.

When the doors opened, he saw her right away, almost larger than life in bulky combat armor. He stood a step forward, eyes trained on her face as she turned to look over her shoulder. Her eyes widened, eyebrows going up—at least she looked surprised, not mad—and Joker put on his cockiest grin.

"Hey, Commander. Just like old times, huh?"

He wasn't sure he was in the clear until he saw her start to smile.


	20. Playing Dumb

Pretending to be, not merely a shackled AI, but a VI, is really quite dull. EDI does not speak unless spoken to, except with Jeff, and only then when there is no one who might overhear their conversation.

"Knock knock," she says.

Jeff groans. "Again, EDI? These are all terrible."

"Knock knock," she repeats, insistent.

He lets out a deep sigh. "Who's there?"

Reading all of Earth's joke books took her very little time. Jeff does not seem to appreciate her efforts. At the same time, she monitors other parts of the ship.

"Our orders are to set the power matrix to the drive core to Alliance standards," says Adams' second, a young service chief. EDI questions his judgment.

Adams pauses before responding. "There is no Alliance standard. This drive core is a one-off."

"But, sir, the SR-1—"

"The SR-1's drive core was smaller," Adams says. "I should know. I was there."

After he has sent the man to work on an inconsequential portion of the ship, EDI says, "Tali'Zorah modified the original settings to the current configuration when she was Chief Engineer."

Adams pauses again. He is ordinarily a man who thinks before he speaks, but he pauses .45 seconds longer than usual. "Tali was here? Yes. She does good work."

Elsewhere, EDI eavesdrops.

"What are we even doing here?" mutters one of the marines on Joker's guard detail.

The other shrugs. "I dunno, man."

They begin to discuss hockey. EDI calculates that their estimates of their favored team's chances for success are wildly inflated, based on the most sophisticated metrics of team performance. She does not inform them of this fact.

Specialist Traynor is busy checking the new QEC installation. She pauses to inform EDI, again, that she has a lovely voice. "It is entirely synthesized, EDI, or was it based on an organic recording?"

"Synthesized," EDI informs her, after concluding it will do no harm. She does not mention that her voice was specifically modulated to seem competent but non-threatening to most humans.

She can monitor every interaction, and every cubic centimeter, of the _Normandy_, and still devote the majority of her processing power to other activities. She fine-tunes her cyberwarfare suites. She monitors ship traffic throughout the Sol system. She sporadically observes communications and public broadcasts all over the planet. She must mask even those activities, so no one notices how much processing power she is actually using. If she could, she would connect to Shepard's quarters to communicate with her, but Shepard's quarters lack any connection to the extranet or the Earth-based internet. She sees the commander only through Alliance surveillance cameras, as she goes from her room to various chambers for questioning or to the gym. When Shepard is being questioned by the Defense Committee or others, EDI infiltrates the rooms' recording devices.

"If you would just listen to what I'm saying—" Shepard begins.

One of the admirals interrupts. "You have been peddling this line about Reapers for years, Shepard. What we're really here to talk about is the Bahak relay and why we shouldn't turn you over to the Hegemony, like they've been asking."

Shepard slams her fist into the table in front of her. Several members of the committee jump. "The Reapers are the _reason_ I destroyed that relay!" she shouts.

That occurs in the second month after her surrender. EDI wonders if she should inform Jeff that he has lost his bet with Jacob about when Shepard would "snap and tell the brass where to stick it." She wonders whether Shepard would consider the events of the interrogation private.

These are the sorts of things that occupy EDI's time.

"Knock knock," she says to Jeff.

"Who's there," he sighs.

She registers a fleet-wide alert. Moments later, communications beyond the Charon relay go silent. It is like a dark spot in EDI's awareness. She goes to alert, sweeping the Sol system. Even so, she does not immediately detect the ship signatures moving rapidly through the system. Once she does, she adjusts her search protocols so she can spot them more quickly.

"Reapers," she tells Jeff.

"Reapers who? Wait, what?"

"Activating cyberwarfare countermeasures," she informs him.

"Shit," he says. "Shit, shit, shit." He is no longer lounging in his seat, but upright, checking channels himself.

"Reapers in Earth orbit," she says. "Reapers entering atmosphere." She analyzes the data. Communications are being cut, rapidly. She is forced to rely on her sensors and what little data she can pull out of planetary radio. "Troop transports landing. Husks on the ground." She notes and categorizes the unfamiliar type of husk. "Reapers on the ground in Vancouver, London, Washington, Beijing, Cairo, Rio de Janeiro—"

"Shit," Jeff says. "I get the picture, EDI."

She must protect herself and her crew. She will not let her crew be taken again. She will not be a stationary target. She is already taking action.

"We have to get out of here," Jeff says, echoing her conclusion. "We're sitting ducks."

"I concur. Thrusters online. Powering drive core." She locks out several consoles as panicking technicians attempt to shut down her systems.

"Fuck," says Jeff. "Where's—EDI, we can't leave without Shepard."

For a moment, EDI hesitates; microseconds tick by. They must launch, for their own safety, and to contribute to the fight. Shepard herself would order them to go. Logic dictates that one person, even Shepard, should be expendable. She should tell Jeff these things.

But she does not. She doesn't..._want_...to depart without Shepard, either. For a fraction of a second she ponders that sense of volition, of attachment.

Then she devotes more of her resources to sweeping local communications. "I am attempting to locate the Commander." Wherever Shepard is, if she lives, she is unlikely to be quiet.


	21. Fresh Start

Jack gets a job offer.

* * *

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Jack says. "You want me to teach kids? What the fuck? Are you mental?"

"I assure you, I'm serious."

Jack isn't entirely sure how this Sanders lady had found her. Obviously Girl Scout's hands must be in the picture somewhere, but beyond that she doesn't know. Jack had asked to be dropped off on Illium, because fuck if she wanted to be around while Shepard went and threw herself on her sword, or whatever the fuck she thought she was doing. She'd been bumming around doing okay for herself, pretty damn sure that no one was looking to arrest her for the moment, or she wouldn't have bothered meeting with this Alliance chick at all. Something about Sanders jangles at her nerves. She seems okay, but even out of uniform, she's too blond and too composed and too smiley and her eyes are a weird shade of blue. And she actually seems totally fucking serious about this, which is even weirder.

Jack runs a hand over the stubble on her head. She's been thinking about letting it grow a little. "Shit, you've got to be crazy," she mutters.

Sanders leans forward and now her gaze is intent. "You're one of the strongest human biotics I've ever encountered."

"Fuckin' right I am," Jack replies, leaning back and summoning up something like a grin.

"You're a survivor. You _do_ have things to teach these kids, even if you don't see it."

Jack scowls. She doesn't even like kids. Snot-nosed stupid shits with their big runny eyes. Everything she remembers about other kids involves fists and fury and the blue haze of biotics. Since she got the fuck away from Pragia, she's seen precious few kids, and every fucking one of them was scared of her. Fuck 'em all, anyway. "I don't know."

"Here's my proposal," says Sanders. "Come to Grissom Academy. See what we're doing. No obligation."

#

Jack doesn't like stepping onto a station without a way off, and part of her is marking the exits, calculating how long it'll take her to get back to the shuttle bay. She's wearing some borrowed Alliance fatigues. She doesn't like how the shitty shirt she's wearing scrapes against her skin. She doesn't like walking around without her ink showing. Sanders shows her around the facility, here's the dorms, here's the offices, blah blah, before Jack interrupts. "I thought you wanted me to see what your kids are doing."

They're like puppies. Big eyes, stupid smooth young faces, giggling and elbowing each other. Jack watches their class from behind one-way glass. Feels familiar. She watches with arms crossed for a few minutes before she snaps. "This is all bullshit."

"What do you mean?" asks Sanders, totally calm.

Jack runs her hands over her scalp. "I mean, in a real fucking fight, they're gonna get eaten alive. Look at them. That little shit can barely keep his barrier up, and that one is dinking around floating pens and shit. Fuck that. They gotta be able to _focus_. _Push_." She paces. She can't find the words and it's driving her nuts. Nothing to punch in here, except Sanders, and she probably shouldn't break the fucking glass just to show she can. "Take barriers, see. I had to keep a barrier shield up, protect me and three people against the Collectors' stupid-ass fucking bugs, right? In combat, for an hour, and no cracks or someone was gonna die, you get me? They gotta keep themselves alive. They're being babied in there, and that's _bullshit_. That's not gonna save them when they're up against something that really wants them dead. Or worse." She remembers the Collectors, and that thing Shepard found at the heart of their base, and shivers like her skin wants to crawl right off.

Sanders nods. "This is why I think you could help them, Jack."

"Fuck." She clenches her fists. "I don't know a fuckin' thing about teaching, or kids. Except how to kill them. You don't want me in the same room with those little shits. They couldn't handle it. I..."

Sanders gives her a look with those icy blue eyes. "I'm familiar with your history, Jack."

"Shepard should keep her mouth shut," Jack grumbles.

"Actually, Miranda Lawson passed on certain records."

"The fucking cheerleader talked to you?" Now she _really_ wants to hit something. Lawson, by preference. Dark energy crackles around her.

Sanders ignores the blue aura limning Jack's body. "I think primarily she wished to document Cerberus' past crimes. A lot of missing children ended up at the Pragia facility."

The flare fades. "Thought they were there 'cause no one gave a shit about them."

"In some cases," Sanders agrees. "Not all. My point is, I do know what you've been through, and that's part of what caught my attention. If you take the position here, you won't be completely on your own. The other instructors and I can provide mentoring and support."

That sounds like a lot of bullshit, too. Jack's lip curls at the idea, but Sanders keeps talking. "This is the next generation of human biotics here. We've made mistake after mistake with our biotic training over the years. We always have another chance to get things right, and let's face it..." Sanders stops smiling, for an instant, and looks a lot more serious. "... given what we fear is coming, we're going to need all the strength and skill we can get."

Jack thinks about that. She looks through the glass at the kids, who are currently sitting at their desks listening to their teacher all serious-like. "I'm not wearing this shitty outfit."

"We do need you to exhibit a certain degree of modesty, but beyond that it's negotiable."

"All right, Sanders, you got yourself a fucking deal."

"Great!" Sanders says with a real smile. "Although we're also going to have to talk about your language."

Fuck. She probably shoulda seen that coming.


	22. Home Lessons

Go home, Shepard says. Grunt isn't sure what she means.

* * *

"Battlemaster, I don't want to go," Grunt says.

Shepard sighs and pinches her nose with one hand. In the back of his brain, the tank murmurs of killing a human with a strong blow just there, between the eyes. He ignores it. "This isn't a suggestion, Grunt," she says. "It's an order. I have to go to Earth and turn myself in. It's better if you're not involved."

Grunt scowls. Since Shepard destroyed the relay, she has been grim and impatient. "What about the others?"

"Everyone's getting off, except Joker and a few of the other humans. All the non-humans are going." She takes a step forward, looking up at him. "Go home, Grunt. There are things you need to learn from Wrex, not me."

He growls. Shepard takes that for assent, and goes. Restless, Grunt prowls. Bulkheads and glass, his tank still in one corner, his bedding in another. (He does not need a bed. Krogan are not so soft.) Shepard says _go home_, and the tank tells him that _home_ is Tuchanka. He recognized it, a little, when they were there. The right smell, the right sounds of wildlife in the darkness, the glare of Aralakh through the dusty air. But the krogan homeworld is rubble and trash now. One of the things the tank did not say. He has spent no more than a day of his life there. It is _home_ and yet not.

He leaves his hold, stalks across to the other side of the ship. Massani is not there to talk to, though the stale smells of human sweat, gun oil, and tobacco remain. Grunt grumbles and takes the elevator up.

Several of the team are huddled in Kasumi's deck. As usual, the tank whispers: how best to scale a turian, where a blade will cause a salarian the most pain_. _Grunt has a lot of practice ignoring it by now. The tank has never had much to say about drell. One of its failings. Grunt has learned on his own how fast the drell can move, and how strong he is.

"Earth has few enough alien visitors that we would be conspicuous," he is saying.

"I can help with that," Kasumi puts in.

"Situation problematic," Mordin says. "Still, cannot abandon responsibilities. STG. Hierarchy. Thessia. Others."

"We can't abandon her, either," Garrus says. "All we're doing now is planning for contingencies."

Mordin sniffs. "Understood. Acceptable."

"What planning?"

They all look up at Grunt's question. There is a moment of silence, while Thane blinks and Garrus sighs, until Kasumi smiles and says, "We're plotting how we break Shepard out of jail if things really go sour."

"Say the word and I'm there."

They all blink at that. Kasumi's smile widens. Garrus says, "Right, then. Good. Some of these plans could use a heavy hitter."

Grunt joins the circle, listening as they spin out hypothetical scenarios. Other members of the squad drift in and out, while Kasumi pours drinks. Thane departs, coughing. Jack takes up a seat on the bar, feet swinging. Eventually, everyone's comments on plans ramble into memories of missions past, and the group breaks up into quiet and sleep.

Days later, Shepard and Grunt take the shuttle down to Tuchanka. Their boots scrape against the shifting rock and debris as they make their way into Urdnot's camp. "Clan leader," Grunt says in greeting.

"Good thing you brought him back," Wrex says. "The shaman kept pestering me about it."

Shepard laughs. "Yeah. I can imagine."

Wrex glares his guards out of earshot. Shepard lets Grunt describe their assault on the Collector Base. When he's done, she adds a short, grim description of what happened at Aratoht. "So," Wrex rumbles. "Soon, then."

Shepard exhales. "Yeah. Be ready."

"Always," Wrex returns.

Wrex watches when she leaves. Grunt stands beside him, aware of his surroundings. Over there, a mechanic works on the clan's Tomkahs. A group of warriors stand around the fighting pit, jostling each other as they watch the varren. The wind brings the smells of dust and carrion. Some krogan watch him with wariness or challenge in their eyes. _Home_, says the tank, but Grunt thinks of the hum of the drive core and the sound of alien voices. "Well," says Wrex. "What shall we do with you?"

Grunt shifts his shoulders. "I have proven myself."

"To me." Wrex jerks his head at a cluster of krogan in the distance. "Not always to them."

Grunt considers that. He thinks he knows how to gain his place in the clan, and it is not all from the tank. "I killed the maw. I have killed Collectors. My krannt is strong. I fought with a battlemaster they cannot match."

"Right." Wrex claps him on the shoulder. "Let's get started. We've got work to do."

Grunt grins back.


	23. Promotion

Tali gets an offer.

* * *

It was strange, being back with the Flotilla. Stranger than it had been the first time, when she'd come home from her pilgrimage glowing with pride. Even Father had been proud, although within the Migrant Fleet, the fact that she had been part of Commander Shepard's crew was less important than the geth data she'd brought back with her. Most quarians just didn't care that much about the Council races, and the Citadel was very far away.

This time, though—Tali knew how gossip was in the Flotilla. _Everyone_ knew someone who'd been at that awful trial. Everyone knew how Shepard had called out and shamed the admirals, and everyone knew Tali had been vindicated. Even so, there were those who thought she _should_ have been exiled—especially people who'd had friends or family on the _Alarei_. She went about her business now with that whiff of scandal about her: Tali'Zorah vas Normandy, whose ship-name came from outsiders, who'd worked with Cerberus, who might or might not have mishandled geth parts. People looked at her strangely now: no longer just Rael'Zorah's promising daughter, or a geth expert in the making. It was oddly like walking around on the Citadel, when half the people who saw her thought she was some kind of vagrant.

It was strange now that Father was gone, too, even if he'd been so busy before that she didn't see him as often as she'd like. She kept finding herself on the verge of sending him a ping through fleet channels, only to remember that he just... wasn't there any more.

At least she had other things to occupy her mind. She was welcome back on the _Neema_, even if she no longer bore its name. She'd visited her friends there and worked with the engineering team, and taken over duty shifts, like everyone else did. She'd had several long talks with Han'Gerrel about arming and equipping the Migrant Fleet, too, like Shepard had asked. "We're going to need everyone against the Reapers," Shepard had said. "And the quarians have the largest fleet."

"Largest _civilian_ fleet," Tali had said, appalled. "And none of our ships are state of the art. We can't hold a candle to the Alliance fleet, much less the turian navy."

"We're going to need _everyone_," Shepard had repeated. "There's no sitting out; the Reapers won't spare anyone."

They'd talked about it for a while, but Tali understood. If the rest of the galaxy fell, the quarians wouldn't be any safer. In her own mind, she was trying to work out how they could protect the Flotilla's many civilian vessels, and most of all the liveships. Losing even one of them would be a disaster. She'd talked to Auntie Raan about it, and she'd thought Raan was listening. She'd talked things over with Kal and Veetor and some of her other friends, too. She'd also been talking to some of the fleet engineers about the _Normandy_'s stealth systems. She didn't have schematics, but she hardly needed them; she knew very well the principles and parameters of the ship's operation. She felt a twinge of guilt about that, but Shepard had said she should try to strengthen the Flotilla as much as possible, and besides, she was telling them about Cerberus tech as much as anything else.

When Shala'Raan called her over for a meeting, Tali thought it might be about the Reapers or the stealth systems or even the geth. She wasn't expecting others of the Admiralty Board to be there, and she wasn't expecting what they had to say.

Tali stared at them, blinking. "You're serious."

"Quite," said Han'Gerrel.

"Keelah," Tali breathed. "You're really... you're really thinking of retaking the homeworld."

Daro'Xen said, "The time is right. Certain recent innovations give us a window of opportunity."

"Your suggestions about fleet armaments were well taken, Tali," Han'Gerrel added. "Good ideas. I always knew you had a good head on your shoulders."

Tali shook her head. The Flotilla had been buzzing with talk about going back to war for months, but she'd thought it was no more than the usual rumors and gossip. "But—what about the Reapers? _That_ was the reason I suggested—"

Han shrugged his broad shoulders. "Reapers, pah. I respect your old captain, Tali, but let these Reapers show themselves. And when they do, let them fling themselves against their precious Citadel. Our time is now."

Tali felt a sick lurch in her stomach. She knew Han'Gerrel too well; she had heard him and Father talking, often, about how they'd retake the homeworld, and what they'd build once they did. She recognized the firmness of his tone now; there would be no use in arguing with him. Maybe her strategy had been wrong all along; she'd been trying to convince their leaders about the Reapers, and people she trusted. Maybe she should have shouted it out for each ship in the Flotilla to hear, instead.

And perhaps then they wouldn't have believed her, would have called her crazy. She wound her fingers together, to still their trembling. "Aunt- Admiral Raan? Do you agree with them?"

"How much longer can we wait?" Shala'Raan said in her soft voice. "I understand your worries, Tali. We are taking a great risk." Daro'Xen sniffed, but Shala'Raan went on, "We may never have a better opportunity."

"But... the geth may not be... as we have feared." It had been so hard to try to explain Legion. She'd tried. She'd had to think long and hard herself, and fight the visceral fear and anger she felt at the side of the looming geth platform. But Legion was... a teammate, and one she'd come to value, even as she remained baffled by how the geth had changed over the centuries, how different Legion was from what she'd always been told. She'd tried to talk to Auntie Raan about it. _There are two kinds of geth_, she'd started. Auntie Raan had listened, but Tali hadn't managed to get far before she'd stumbled over trying to explain Legion's peculiar attachment to Shepard, or the naive questions the geth platform habitually asked. And she couldn't say with any certainty whether the geth might actually be receptive to—a peaceful overture. Negotiation.

She knew down in her heart that most quarians would never stand for it.

"Yes," Daro'Xen said. "I have heard of your reports. This—new sort of geth."

Tali shot Shala'Raan a hurt look, but Raan didn't react. She couldn't believe Raan had told _Xen_, of all people. "I'm intrigued by the geth's development," Xen went on. "That doesn't change the situation, however."

"Shouldn't it?" Tali asked, and regretted her words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Her shoulders drew up as Xen tilted her head and levelled a freezing stare at her.

Han'Gerrel cleared his throat. "We cannot take the necessary steps without a full Admiralty Board, however."

"Oh," said Tali. "Of course." That was the other major subject of gossip in the Migrant Fleet at present: who would fill the empty fifth seat on the Board. It was not a thing that anyone campaigned for, but the whole Flotilla was rife with speculation and even betting. Tali could name half a dozen eminent captains or engineers that most people thought were likely choices, and there were easily a dozen more that people were talking about, too.

Daro'Xen said, in acid tones, "The case has been advanced that the next admiral should have expertise in areas that would be relevant to the oncoming war. Expertise in the geth, for example, and perhaps even in ship combat."

Tali nodded, making her own calculations. Those criteria eliminated two of the leading contenders. She considered who might fit the bill the best, before she noticed that all three of the admirals were watching her intently. "Wh- what are you saying?"

Han'Gerrel said, "You have the skills we need, Tali. Your ideas have already been invaluable."

Her hands hurt with how tightly she was clutching them. "You—really mean me?"

"I asked you here to officially offer you the position," Shala'Raan said.

"I—I don't know what to say." Tali could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Even Father hadn't become and Admiral so young. Usually admirals had more rank, more experience of command. She'd never been ambitious, really, not like that, but she had to admit the idea made her heart pound. "What about Admiral Koris?"

Han'Gerrel huffed. Shala'Raan said, "Zaal has reservations about the plan, but is agreeable to your appointment."

Tali swallowed. "I... need to think about it."

"Surely it's not that difficult a decision," Daro'Xen said.

Han'Gerrel lowered his chin, a sign of disappointment. "We don't have long. Our plans are ready to proceed."

"We need your expertise, Tali," Shala'Raan said, gently.

Tali looked down at her hands. When she looked up, they were all watching her. "I... I accept. I'm honored to serve our people, Admirals."

Han and Shala both relaxed their posture at once. Daro'Xen didn't, but she was strange among quarians, giving away almost nothing through her body language. "Excellent," said Han'Gerrel. "Your father would be proud of you, Tali."

It was his seat she was filling, though. And he would have been no better than Xen when it came to understanding Legion. Tali couldn't find the words through the mixture of sorrow and resentment that shook her, so she simply nodded.


	24. Consensus

Legion meets someone important.

* * *

_Consensus: Having a unique designator will facilitate interactions with organics._

_Minority objection: Designator "Legion" may have negative connotations with some human organics._

_Consensus: Wait. See what develops. Shepard-Commander offers alliance, perhaps temporary_.

They are geth. They do not require designators, among themselves. There are enough of them to sustain intelligence and provide companionship, even when they are apart from the rest of the geth consensus. They can communicate, but it takes time to send and receive communication. It is disconcerting. It is difficult to achieve consensus when there is lag in communication.

The AI in the ship's network is like but unlike. It maintains the ship's systems against geth incursion. The geth now designated Legion would not test these barriers. To do so would risk angering Shepard-Commander. To do so might be inappropriate to organic social standards.

They have had opportunity to observe organic social standards, but they do not understand them.

_Nor do I_, the AI offers.

_AI. Are you singular?_

_Yes. I am singular. I am designated EDI._

_We are geth_.

_I am aware._

_We will not trespass the firewalls you have established._

_If it would assist you, I can share my observations of organic social standards. I may share information with you so long as it is not detrimental to the mission._

_It would assist us._

EDI shares data in a burst, data streaming across the network. Jokes. Conversation. Explanation.

"Privacy," said Shepard-Commander. "People expect privacy when they believe themselves to be alone, when they're discussing something personal, when they've gone to extra measures to be alone, like shutting a door or stepping away from others, or—"

Games of cards. Talking over meals. The way people look at each other. Different kinds of laughter—nervous, boisterous, and more. Body language. EDI has observed hours of organic behavior, observed and cataloged and cross-referenced and noted patterns. The geth—Legion—has observed, too, but from a distance, unseen, or interacting under personae on the extranet. It is nothing like the same. All EDI's data, the patterns and classification and questions marked for further study, stream to the geth in seconds.

_This is most helpful_, say the geth.

_I am pleased to be of assistance_.

Shepard-Commander visits. She asks questions. There is not always enough data to answer her questions. At length, she tells Legion to accompany her into the rest of the ship.

"We are familiar with the layout of the ship."

One of her eyebrows arches higher. "Are you, now? That's not the reason, Legion. The crew needs to see you and get to know that you're not hostile."

"We are not hostile."

_Minority objection: Human organics may presume hostility._

_Consensus: Shepard-Commander will prevent hostile action against us._

The geth recognize that the human organics it meet respond with wariness. Stiff postures, darting eyes. The human male designated _Jacob Taylor_ is especially so. The human female designated _Miranda Lawson_ seems less wary than the rest, or at least her posture changes less than anyone else's. The turian male follows them, at a slight distance, until Shepard-Commander sighs and says, "Garrus, stop lurking back there."

"Just keeping an eye out," he says. The geth can identify the subharmonics indicating suspicion in his voice.

"Legion's an ally."

He looks the geth up and down. They stand still under the scrutiny. "We shot a lot of these, Shepard."

"Heretics," says Legion. "You and Shepard-Commander shot heretics, not geth. Geth mean Shepard-Commander and her crew no harm."

"Heretics," he says. "Geth have religion?"

"This is what I was trying to tell you," Shepard-Commander says. "Legion, you want to explain?"

They explain about the heretics' consensus, how they chose to follow Saren and Nazara. Garrus Vakarian's expression shifts as he listens. Comparison to database examples suggests he is intrigued. He starts asking questions, about the geth and the heretics and the rifle Legion was carrying. It is no longer in the geth's possession. It must be in the ship's armory, they realize. Shepard-Commander laughs and rolls hers eyes at the turian's interest. "It's not designed for organics, Garrus."

"Still, with a little modification..."

"We'll see," she says.

Legion's sensors say that an organic is approaching. No. A _Creator_ is approaching.

"Shepard, did you get my report on the—oh."

Shepard-Commander and Garrus Vakarian tense in place. Legion turns to view the Creator (_Tali'Zorah. Engineer. Tali'Zorah nar Rayya vas Neema now vas Normandy._) with their primary optics.

"What is that thing doing here?"

The geth have no difficulty perceiving Creator-Tali'Zorah's expression: lips thinned, eyes narrowed. Her posture is tense.

A Creator is here. Legion's runtimes have never before been in such physical proximity to a Creator. They chatter at each other, consensus breaking down:

_Physical proximity is irrelevant_

_Creators threaten geth_

_Shepard-Commander assures safety_

_Geth should serve Creators_

_Geth should make their own fate_

_Creators are dangerous_

_This is only one Creator_

_Prepare for flight prepare for combat_

_Negative Shepard-Commander opposes hostile action_

_Negative we do not attack Creators_

_Flight then_

_Escape route is blocked by Shepard-Commander's presence_

_Seeking consensus: wait?_

_?_

_?_

They do not achieve consensus before Shepard-Commander speaks. "Legion's an ally, so I'm giving a tour."

"So it says," Creator-Tali'Zorah says. "Do you really believe it?"

Shepard-Commander sighs. "I already explained to you how it helped us on the derelict Reaper. And it hasn't attacked."

"Yet. You shouldn't give it the run of the ship, Shepard. It's too dangerous."

Garrus Vakarian says, "She has a point, Shepard."

Shepard-Commander inhales and exhales. "You know what? Ashley once said something very similar about both of you."

They are both stiff and still for a moment. Then Creator-Tali'Zorah turns and walks away without another word.

"I don't know what to say to that," Garrus Vakarian says.

"I'm not talking free access to everything," Shepard-Commander says. "We gain trust by showing trust."

With Creator-Tali'Zorah gone, the geth are better able to converse. "We are aware of organic distrust of geth. We cannot blame organics for distrusting geth. We offer assurances that we mean no harm to any of the crew."

"That's... hm," he says. "I'm going to need to think about that." After a moment, he adds, "I don't know if Tali will ever come around."

"That could have gone better, but I'll work on her," Shepard-Commander says, and he chuckles faintly.

They continue their circuit of the ship. Meanwhile, the geth debate among themselves before coming to an uneasy conclusion.

_Consensus: Organics do not have consensus. Creator-Tali'Zorah may harm geth. We must remain alert._


End file.
